


Not Wisely But Too Well

by sarabandefive



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Bisexual Character, Character Study, F/M, M/M, Polyamorous Character, This was supposed to be happy if you can believe it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 12:33:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19745866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarabandefive/pseuds/sarabandefive
Summary: Feliciano has always believed strongly in indulging his passions in life.





	Not Wisely But Too Well

Feliciano has always believed strongly in indulging his passions. Life is short and a sportsperson's career is even shorter, and although he still clings to the hope of an afterlife he's old enough and unsure enough now to recognise that nothing on that front is guaranteed. Why waste time waiting for a heaven that might not come when you could be enjoying the life that you're living right now?

Unquestionably, tennis is Feli's greatest passion in life. It's what occupies ninety percent of his waking hours, it made him his fortune, it gave him his friends and his fiancée and his not inconsiderable slice of fame. He could have retired years ago, and yet he is still playing, still training, still dragging himself around the world for tournaments because he simply cannot bring himself to give it up.

His second greatest passion, as anyone who follows his instagram knows, is wine, and his third is sex.

In a way, he believes, sex is quite like wine: each experience has a slightly different character, a different bouquet of flavours and aromas to savour. Different grapes suit different occasions, and match well with different foods, or seasons, or emotional states. A wine of a particularly good vintage can live in the memory for years upon years to come, just as a particularly bad one will sour the palette and leave a nasty taste behind it.

There are thousands of varieties of wine in the world, and Feli wants to try them all.

* * *

Although it's relatively rarely that he does it with Rafa, it's always incredible - messy and intense, Rafa all teeth and lips and flurries of hands on skin. It's all Feli can do to slow him down, to try and get him to savour the occasion. It's not like they come along very often; by the time Rafa is old enough to properly catch Feli's attention, their lives have already started to drift apart, Rafa catapulted to the heights of fame while Feli stays struggling at the foothills. Besides, Rafa's family circle is as tight as a vice. It's almost impossible to catch him alone, or to find time in his packed schedule for this.

When it is possible, though, it's worth the hassle of trying. Rafa's beauty is not exactly a secret; the boy practically glows, angelic, every inch of him physically perfect from his sculpted abs to his soft, gentle brown curls. With this physical attractiveness comes a boundless energy, a fiery concentration, and a deep reserve of passion that all combine to make the act of sex close to a religious experience. The excess of joy that blazed from Rafa in his youth has damped slightly with age, as years of pain and pressure in the public eye have added a weariness that shows in his face, but beneath this still burns the same fire that had drawn Feli in more than a decade ago. 

They used to make more of an effort to meet than they do now - back then they might fuck every month at least, now it can be half a year or more. At one stage Feli called a halt to their trysts entirely when he started to feel like he was becoming a stand-in for someone else. Rafa's eyes were starting to look beyond him, his moans sounding like they were intended for the ears of someone who was not there. Although in recent years they have picked up close to where they left off, and the sex is still otherwordly, Feli knows that he hasn't been Rafa's first priority in a long while.

Luckily, Feli has far too many irons in the fire to let the cooling of one particular iron bother him.

* * *

Grigor is an interesting one, and one that Feli looks back on with great fondness. That happens just once, in 2017, after the interview where Grigor was caught on camera ranting about Feli's calves. He's not the first player that has called Feli hot - Feli would be quite offended, indeed, if that was the case - but Grigor's advantage over those other players is that Feli finds him pretty hot, too.

It's an easy enough task to seduce him once Feli sets about it. Grigor has simple tastes, and his rather pathetic relationship with his celebrity girlfriend doesn't leave him particularly satisfied. And Feli is good at seduction; it's a useful skill to have, when one has few natural gifts other than a pretty face. He has Grigor in his bed within days of the interview.

The sex is good, as might be expected, but what fascinates Feli is Grigor himself. He's ridiculously chatty, almost giddy, and barely stops talking throughout, babbling about how good Feli is making him feel and how much he wants it and other things in Bulgarian which are meaningless to Feli. Truth be told he has difficulty catching most of the English, Grigor is so breathless and incoherent beneath him. Feli sucks him off with relish, enjoying how demonstrative Grigor is in his appreciation of what Feli has been told is a particular talent of his. Grigor's attempt at returning the favour is less refined, but hugely enthusiastic.

In a strange way he reminds Feli of Rafa, although once Feli's brain has made the comparison he finds that Grigor comes off rather poorly from it and does his best not to think about it any more. Definitely the same boundless energy is there, though, and the same wild ecstasy when he comes that Rafa had when he was younger. 

Overall it is a pleasant experience, but Feli finds he doesn't seek it out again. Some tastes, perhaps, do not need to be tasted more than once.

* * *

Marc is quite simply the rock in Feli's life. In the periods where everything feels cold and dark and simultaneously terrifyingly huge and terrifyingly small, Marc is always there to make him laugh, and touch him softly, and take him home. There have been times, especially during the divorce, when Feli has not even been able to drag himself out of bed, and Marc has been the one who handled his calls, and answered his emails, and met with his team, and sometimes even brought him food and water. Without Marc, Feli suspects the story of his last few years would be considerably different.

Feli doesn't know how to show his gratitude for everything Marc has done for him. He's not much of a cook, or a writer, and Marc doesn't need money or fame. Feli knows that the only thing he can offer him is his body, and so he gives it to him, whenever he wants it. As Marc's own marriage starts to dissolve, he starts to want it quite often.

Their doubles partnership starts to founder, and Marc moves into the spare room of Feli's house. The worse their results on court, the more Marc turns to him, and this makes their results even worse again, but Feli doesn't care. It's the least Marc deserves, when it's partly the time he spent with Feli that got him into this situation. Plus, the sex is great. Marc's affable public demeanour is a sheath that hides a steely self-control, and Feli is happy to submit to it. It becomes an extra thrill, to try and break down the wall, to use every technique at his disposal to elicit shivers and moans and fingers tightened in his hair. Watching Marc give in to pleasure is an experience that Feli can't find the words to describe. Perhaps if he had a more poetic soul, or had seen more of the world, he would have something to compare it to, but he just has this, Marc unravelling under his hands.

Marc is a kinky fucker, as well, which initially surprised Feli but now delights him. It's from Marc that Feli learns the appeal of the blindfold, the rope, the collar and the chain, judiciously employed. This is a kind of safety and security too, surrendering completely to Marc's control, letting his worries and stresses fade blissfully away and knowing that Marc will take care of him.

After Sandra, and as Marc's life slowly gets back on track in its own way, the frequency of their meetings diminishes, but they don't stop. They're far too tied together now for that to happen, each one of them taking something from this that they can't find elsewhere. Feli feels a little guilty, sometimes, that Marc has come to need him in the same way that Feli once needed Marc, and he's not sure that he's giving Marc all that he really needs, but he continues to try. It is, after all, the least that Marc deserves.

* * *

Andy, he admits, was a surprise. Yes, they have known each other since their junior days, and yes, Feli has certainly admired the Scotsman from afar for a long time, but he had been utterly certain that Andy was utterly straight. The timely and proper acquisition of a wife and two kids only reinforced this belief, and so any vague notion that Feli might have had of making a move, he put to the back of his mind. He is not in the business of wasting his energy on hopeless cases.

The wildcard for Queens is not unexpected, but the offer to play doubles with Andy certainly is. Feli has no idea why Andy might have chosen him, other than on the strength of their friendship, but he's honoured and touched by it, and perhaps the warm affectionate feelings that spring from this lead him to smile a little wider at Andy than he might have done otherwise, to stand a little closer to him, to lay a hand on his shoulder or his back in reassurance after a tough point. He has no objective in mind; Feli is naturally an affectionate person, and he feels like he can be himself around Andy.

Their natural chemistry, in the end, translates to incredible synchronisation on court, and Feli finds himself finishing the week not with one trophy, but with two. He's not sure which he is prouder of. 

By the time they are sitting in the Amazon interview room Feli is exhausted, his heart is overflowing with happiness, and he doesn't hesitate before he asks Andy to join him and his team in their evening celebrations. They eat and drink and laugh well into the night, and when the restaurant closes they go on to a bar, and then to a club, shedding members of their teams at every step until eventually just the two of them are left. By this stage they are both out of their minds with tiredness but neither seems to want to leave the other; Feli buys more and more alcohol as an excuse to stay longer and they get steadily drunker and drunker as they talk about everything and anything under the sun until eventually, on their way back to the bar for another round, Feli finds himself pushed unceremoniously up against the wall and kissed hard.

'Andy...?' he asks, eyes wide, when Andy eventually pulls away. His partner stares back. There's something in his expression that looks a lot like fear.

'I - I don't know,' he stammers, a blush rising in his cheeks. 'I'm sorry-'

Feli slips his hands around Andy's waist and pulls him close. He knows distantly that he shouldn't do this, but under the haze of the wine and exhaustion and the delirium of a double victory, it's easy to silence his conscience. 'Why you are apologising?' he says. 'I'm not gonna complain. Wanted to try that for years.'

Andy's eyes widen further. 'I thought you were straight,' he says, and Feli can't hold back a laugh at that, an ungainly guffaw that has people on the other side of the bar turning their heads in annoyance. Luckily this corner is dark and shadowy enough that he's pretty sure their faces can't be seen. The reminder of the risk does sober him up enough to call a cab, however, and they take the matter back up again with lips and tongues and hands in the safety of Feli's hotel room. Andy has sex like someone who has never been with a man before, and it's awkward and haphazard and a thoroughly enjoyable way to round off a championship week.

'You really thought I was straight?' Feli says, afterwards, as he lies satiated against Andy's chest. 

'I really did.'

Feli laughs again, then yawns enormously, suddenly feeling the return of the fatigue that he had managed to keep at bay long enough to show Andy just how incorrect this assumption had been. They end up sleeping together there, still partially clothed and lying in a mess on top of Feli's bland hotel duvet covers, as the early morning summer sunlight glints off the two shining silver trophies on the coffee table.

* * *

Fernando fucks him as if he'll die without it.

Feli can't get enough of this: pressed roughly up against a wall, into a bed, on a floor, in a shower; Fernando's weight solid on his back, his wrists caught in Fernando's grip and Fernando's breath on his neck. Sometimes Fer bites, sometimes he doesn't; he always growls, low and feral, as he pushes slowly into Feli, and Feli lets out the breath it feels like he's been holding since the last time Fer was inside him. 

'Hijo de puta,' Fer moans. 'Missed this. Missed you. Always thinking about you.'

Feli whines and ruts against the mattress, or the wall, or whatever surface he has come up against this time, until Fer reaches to wrap a hand around his cock, getting him off with strong, sure strokes in rhythm with the motion of his hips. 

Fer puts all of himself into the act and after they've both come he is always exhausted, and so they lie together - or slump together on the floor, or the couch - as their racing heartbeats slow. Feli closes his eyes and feels the burn inside him and hopes it'll last for at least a few days. It's uncomfortable and it makes practice hell, but it's a reminder that this happened, that this was real and violent and that someone cared enough about him to do this to him, again and again -

Fer sighs, and stirs, and brings a hand up to stroke Feli's face, impossibly gently given what they've just done. He murmurs something that's difficult to make out, but his voice is soft and warm and Feli feels his heart ache.

He thinks a lot about a life with Fernando. He tries not to, but the images rise into his mind unbidden of the two of them waking up together in the morning, of coffee on the terrace, of hot rough sex in a bathroom that actually belongs to them, of placemats and tableware and electricity bills and fierce arguments over household chores. He sees their home in his mind's eye so clearly that he could paint it, if he had any skill in that area.

He's pretty sure he is in love with Fer, at least as far as that means anything, but he never says anything about it. Fer is married now, and has a beautiful wife and a beautiful, tiny son, and Feli knows Fer is already giving him more than he really deserves. Best to leave things as they are.

Fer's breathing slows against his shoulder, and once Feli is sure that he's asleep, he gently twines their fingers together and presses a kiss to Fer's forehead. It might be days until they find themselves back here, or it might be weeks, or months, if he's unlucky. Nevertheless, he knows with total certainty that this will not - will never - be the last time, and that knowledge has to be enough.

* * *

Of course, not everything that you try ends up a success. In a lifetime of sexual adventures there were always going to be some mishits and misjudgements, and Feli accepts that as he accepts losses on the tennis court.

David was an early mistake, committed before either of them really knew what they really wanted, a heat of the moment collision that became a fortnight of avoidance and awkwardness and guilt before they forced themselves to talk it through. Although their friendship escaped unharmed, it was an important lesson for Feli, who has tried since then to be more aware of the consequences of his unorthodox approach to sex. He hopes that he has hurt fewer people because of it, although he fears that he has still hurt quite a lot of people in his time.

Alba was the worst casualty, of course. It still pains him to think of her, and of how poorly, he now realises, they understood one another. The most hurtful of the many venomous things that she said to the press in the wake of their tumultuous collapse was that she didn't think that Feli had the capacity for love. Reading it had stung like a slap across the face, or a dagger stuck deep into his heart, because nothing could have been further than the truth and because he had loved her deeply, once upon a time. The thought that the many others that he loves might think the same thing of him keeps him awake at night.

Not all of his failures have been so dramatic. The majority have been quite prosaic: strings of identical high-school girlfriends, a few hookups with players in nondescript locker rooms, an occasional sloppy makeout at a party that went nowhere. Feli thinks of them as tastes tried, but which left little impression. Of more consequence, perhaps, is the taste which will forever elude him but which he has longed to experience for nigh on twenty years. Sex with Roger remains only an imagined pleasure, a fantasy for lonely nights. He wonders continually what it would be like - would Roger be gentle, or rough? He seems like the kind of man who likes to be in control, but might that slip away in the stark intimacy of the bedroom? Feli has imagined it every way possible, and every way is gratifying, but as the years pass he realises that this particular experience is one that will never materialise - not least because Roger's time appears to be fully taken up by another, these days.

He has toyed with the idea, on numerous occasions, of asking Rafa if he could join the two of them for a night - just to see what it's like - but every time he decides against it. After all, Rafa has never actually confirmed that it's Roger that he's sleeping with, for all that it's common knowledge on the tour. Feli has never been reticent about sharing information like this, but he knows that Rafa guards the details of his personal life jealously, like a treasure. He's not sure how he would react to an open question on the subject, let alone the matter of Feli's actual request. And anyway, for all that he considers himself a connoisseur of sex, Feli actually isn't that keen on doing it with more than one person present at a time, something which has come as a surprise to some of his hookups. He tends to feel like the individual subtleties of the act, the particular and intimate dynamic created by learning the subtleties of another person's body and mind, get lost in busyness and physicality if extra participants are introduced. So his Roger-themed fantasies remain fantasies - which, Feli admits, have their place and their particular attraction, too.

On the whole, sex is easy to find as a good-looking tennis star. What might reductively be termed 'relationships' are more elusive. Most of Feli's locker-room conquests assume that sex is all he is looking for; many are unwilling to offer any kind of deeper emotional connection, particularly if they are already attached to girlfriends or boyfriends or some other kind of romantic partner. On the other side of the coin, relationships he has pursued outside of tennis - as it happens, mostly with women - have tended to end in argument, usually about exclusivity, the one point on which Feli refuses to budge. Tying yourself down to one person for life, or even for an extended period of time, is as ludicrous an idea to him as insisting on eating the same meal every day for a year, or only ever drinking the same type of wine. He doesn't see the point in lying to himself or to his partners about his need for sexual and emotional fulfilment from more than one source, and unfortunately that tends to lose him a lot of potential partners. 

It's not really a big deal, though, he reasons. He's been lucky in his friends, and has ended up with a circle of people around him that he wouldn't trade for the world. He can imagine a lot of ways that his romantic life could be better; but then, he can think of plenty of ways in which it could be worse; it's certainly been exciting, and eventful, and emotional, and is there anyone out there who can say, truly, that they are completely happy with how all of their relationships have turned out? Feli concludes that there probably is not, puts the question out of his head, and pours himself another glass of wine.

* * *

In a way what he has with Sandra is refreshingly simple. It's certainly refreshingly normal, or at least as normal as anything can be on the tour. Sandra travels with him and sits in his box; they're engaged to be married; they have a flat and a dog and they post photos of one another on instagram and comment on them with strings of little hearts. Feli suspects that soon after the wedding, Sandra will ask him about children, and he thinks he's comfortable with being asked. It's an odd feeling, a kind of domesticity that seemed to happen easily, almost without him noticing. If asked to describe it, he might say that he feels a little like the old man in the fairytale who fell asleep under a tree and woke up to find his whole world had changed around him.

Sandra is a wonder, full of the optimism and light of youth, stunningly, delicately beautiful. They had been seeing one another unofficially for months before they slept together. Since then Sandra has become an integral piece of his life, as he supposes a fiancée should. It's her smile that most often welcomes him home; her touch that wakes him in the morning; her voice that he hears shouting encouragements from his player box at matches. She's funny, and bright, smarter than he is and far more worldly wise in her way, and Feli doesn't understand what she sees in someone like him but he's glad that she apparently continues to see it.

He's grateful in particular for her understanding when it comes to his need for other partners. They had of course discussed it, early in their relationship, as Feli knows from experience that most people have trouble with this part of who he is. Though he was initially concerned, on the whole she has coped with the idea well. It's such a stark contrast to his experience with Alba that Feli doesn't quite believe it; he feels like he has built a castle out of playing cards, balanced on a shaky table, and at the slightest breeze the whole edifice will come crashing down. Perhaps it's a desire for a more stable foundation for that castle that led him to propose so soon.

The flat that they buy together is modern, urban, on the twelfth floor. It has a studio and a gym and space for a kids' bedroom, if they decide they want one, and a fancy fridge and a big double bed. Marc visits regularly, and they all have dinner together. The wedding day is set for September. Feli is happy.

He finds it difficult to remember what the flat looks like when he's not at home.

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic is a line spoken by Shakespeare's Othello after he murders his wife in a jealous rage, believing that she has been having an affair with another man. He begs that he not be judged too harshly for being 'one that loved not wisely but too well' - in other words, one whose love was so strong and passionate that it led him to make unwise choices.


End file.
